A/N: I do not own any of these characters; they belong to their respected authors. I am merely a dreamer with too much time on their hands and a wide vocabulary. Note: Tate Langdon is more than just a school shooter in this piece of fiction - he's also a serial killer. Hence why we're being thrust into an AU here. Enjoy.

Chapter 3 – The Spare

It was the sun creeping in through the dusty purple curtains that woke Lisbeth up. Groaning, she turned on her side and buried herself deep under the duvet, the soft comforter wrapping itself around her naked body. She was exhausted from the previous day's flight, and she wondered how long she slept. It didn't matter though; she had all the time in the world.

She dragged herself out of bed, her exposed chest tightening as the cool air of the house circulated against her. She scratched her side underneath her breast, her mother's name tattooed into her skin as a reminder of what she lost. She pulled her pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of her backpack and lit a smoke, adding the stale scent of nicotine to the already dust contaminated air. With the cigarette dangling from her lips, Lisbeth made her way out of the bedroom and headed to the bathroom across the hall, her bare feet shuffling across the wooden floorboards.

Hayden peered out from Ben and Vivien's bedroom, watching as the stranger moved into the bathroom she had once used long ago. This girl, she seemed so…different than the other occupants that had walked through these halls. She wasn't here to live, she was here to study.

Lisbeth plopped herself down on the toilet and took a piss, inhaling her cigarette as she did so, listening to the sound of her urine hitting the toilet bowl. Looking across from her, she noted the anagrammed towels that lay folded against the metal bar. Her pierced brow raised, Lisbeth reached over and grabbed the white towel, the letter 'V' sewn into the material, holding it up to her face.

"V", she whispered, as her thumb traced over the golden thread. She threw the towel into the adjacent bathtub, wiped herself, and flushed the toilet before washing her hands, stubbing out her smoke in the sink. Splashing water of her face, Lisbeth scrubbed at the wear of the night and grabbed another one of the anagrammed towels (another 'V') and pat the skin of her face dry. She threw it on the ground and left the bathroom.

The sound of the towels hitting the tiled floor perked the interest of Moira, who craned her neck from the study's doorway, watching the naked girl make her way back into what was once Violet's bedroom. The old woman's heart raced as she noticed the carelessness of the stranger, her insides vibrating with irritation. "Not in my house," the old woman mumbled, and stepped out of the study, ready to pester the young woman.

"Are you crazy?" Hayden hissed, pushing the old woman into the study and slamming the door shut. Lisbeth's ears stood on alert as she heard the sound of a door hit the frame, and she turned on her heel and looked at her open bedroom door. She grabbed the nearest tee-shirt and slung it across her chest, making a break for the door and twisting her neck on either side of the hallway.

Nothing.

"Who is that?" Moira exclaimed, her cracked voice rising. Hayden pressed her palm against the woman's mouth and bit her bottom lip, listening to the intruder's fast footsteps; she heard them. "Later," Hayden mouthed. The old woman scowled at her, and Hayden let go of Moira when she no longer heard the stranger move. Hayden shook her head.

"Someone's in the house," she stated, and Moira rolled her eyes at the obvious. Hayden watched as her cloudy eye swiveled in its socket. "I don't know who she is," she continued. "But she's certainly not staying here." Although Hayden's soul was trapped in the house forever and she was full of resentment, she could not bare the thought of another person losing their life to the evil that seeped through the walls. Especially another woman.

"How do you suppose we get her out then?" Moira hissed, looking at the arrogant youth. Hayden shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "But we have to get her out of here somehow."

-x-

Lisbeth squinted her eyes as the sun beat down on her. Sweat started to pool at her temple as she walked down the LA streets, listening to the sounds of traffic and the inconsistent chatter of tourists and locals alike. She rounded the corner until she found a coffee shop, slipping inside and finding herself in a booth by the window. She watched the sunny city move across the window, their shorts riding up to high and their sunglasses framing their faces.

"What can I get for ya?" the waiter inquired, looking bored and out of place. "Black coffee and an English muffin," Lisbeth answered, and the waiter jotted down her order and walked to the back. Lisbeth opened up her bag and pulled out the files related to Tate Langdon, the school shooter that might very well be much more than that. She rifled through the papers once again, going over the same text that she had read over on the plane. There was nothing new that could help her; she needed more information.

The waiter emerged from the back of the shop, a circular tray topped with toasted grain, a mug of coffee, and various confectionaries. He placed her breakfast in front of her, his eyes scanning over the papers that lay out before her, nearly dropping her plate of English muffins to the floor.

"Where…," he stammered, as his eyes rested against the colored photo of Tate Langdon that rested underneath Lisbeth's fingers. She looked up at the stiff waiter, at his wide eyes and the sweat that started to bead at his temple. She picked up the picture of the boy and held it up to him. "Do you know him?" she questioned, her voice urgent. The waiter swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down against the skin of his throat.

"Know him?" he repeated, shaking his head. "I went to school with him." He tucked the tray underneath his armpit, looking at the hauntingly familiar face of the boy that left a tragic scar over his memory. Lisbeth looked up at the waiter, her eyes never blinking. "Tell me about him," she ordered. "Everything you know." The waiter shook his head, tearing his gaze away from the photo.

"I don't know to much," he said honestly. "I only know of what happened that day and what the papers said about him. Tate was a…he was a fucked up kid, man. I don't even remember him at school before the…before the…" he nodded his head to the other papers on the table, at the document labeled 'Westfield High School Massacre'. Lisbeth threw the photo on the table, heaving a sigh of frustration.

"Okay," she said, and the waiter stood awkwardly at the side of the table, finding himself staring at Tate's photo that slid itself next to the salt and pepper shakers. Lisbeth looked up at him, her face in a scowl. "You can go now," she said, and the waiter jumped at her voice. "Right," he said. "Sorry." He shuffled away, and Lisbeth took a large bite out of her dry English muffin.

People don't just forget, Lisbeth thought. They push it to the back of their minds, knit-picking every single detail that happened until eventually it becomes so torn that it's easy to shove aside. That's how she dealt with her tragedies – why should this be any different?

Drinking her coffee and nibbling on her English muffin, the waiter pulled himself from the back of the shop and slipped her the check. "You know," he said, as she began to pull money out of her pocket. "If you want to find out about him, you might want to try the school. The librarian, the teacher that got shot, he still works there. You can ask him questions if you want, although I don't know what he can tell you." Lisbeth looked up at him, slipping him a twenty.

"Keep the change," she said, grabbing her backpack and leaving the coffee shop.

-x-

'This is a smoke free school' sign hanging next to the entrance to Westfield High School bore straight into Lisbeth's eyes. She inhaled sharply on her cigarette before throwing it to the ground and stomping on it with the toe of her boot. She grabbed the handles of the door and pushed her way inside, her eyes scanning the signs indicating the row of room numbers in the joining hallways. She bounded up a flight of stairs before finding herself in front of the library.

Lisbeth stood in front of the wooden doors leading into the library, noting the paneling, closing her eyes and visualizing the day of the shooting. The heavy footfalls of Tate Langdon making his way towards his next point of interest, the blood that trailed behind him, the terrified screams and whimpers of injured and frightened students; Lisbeth could see it perfectly. She opened her eyes, looking back at the entrance to the library and made her way inside.

Silent – just like a library should be. A golden plaque hung itself on the wall, the etched names of the fifteen students that lost their lives the day Tate Langdon decided to end them. Lisbeth stepped towards the plaque, running her fingers across the names.

"Can I help you?" Lisbeth turned to see a portly man with glasses and thinning hair sitting in a wheelchair, looking at the curious woman who looked very much out of place. "Are you the teacher that got shot?" she questioned, her voice dry with lack of emotion. The librarian scowled, his hands resting against the wheels at his side, turning them so that he could move away from the rude stranger.

"Isn't it obvious?" he spat, as he pushed himself between an aisle of books. He pulled a few off the shelf that seemed out of order, placing them back in correctly. "Yes, I'm Mr. Carmichael. I'm one of the many victims. I survived, although I'm not sure if this is fortunate or not. Eighteen years has yet to confirm my feelings on my handicap." Lisbeth followed him down the aisle of books, waving to students that smiled at him and placing texts in their appropriate slots.

"I was wondering if you could tell me what happened that day," Lisbeth asked. Carmichael looked at her, his face blank. "Seriously?" he questioned, giving her his full attention. "Listen, kid: every once in a while somebody finds our story, becomes engrossed in it, and starts sticking their head in places they shouldn't be sticking it in. They want to know the ins-and-outs about what happened; know what everybody else doesn't. But that's just it: I don't know anything about what happened. All of a sudden, BOOM! There were shots being fired, screams ringing throughout the school, and I was on the ground, praying for God to spare the children." He began to wheel himself to the next aisle.

"Anything that wasn't mentioned in the articles," Lisbeth pushed, following him. Irritated, Carmichael pulled out a handful of books and placed it on his lap. "Nothing," he said. Lisbeth huffed, her blood beginning to boil. "What about the boy? Don't you have anything to say about the boy?" At this, Carmichael's entire demeanor seemed to break, like a forgotten memory pushed its way towards the front of his mind.

"Why are you tormenting me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Lisbeth raised an eyebrow at him, and he sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingers. "Follow me," he instructed, and Lisbeth followed the aged librarian through the shelves of dusty books.

"I don't remember much about him," he said. "He was quiet, reserved, very anti-social. Of course, I'm sure everything you've read about him said the same thing. I don't think I can tell you anything new that you haven't already read." He led her into the non-fiction section of the library, the titles promising facts and real-life accounts from the past. "What about his home life? Do you know anything about his family?" Lisbeth questioned. Carmichael shook his head.

"As I said, I know nothing more about him than what the articles released eighteen years ago," he reiterated. He pushed himself towards the section dedicated to animals, his index finger running over the spines in front of him. "Do you believe in God, miss?" Lisbeth raised an eyebrow at him as he pulled out a thin white book from the shelf.

"I don't know what I believe in," she came back with. Carmichael opened up the book, bright pages with watercolor paintings of exotic birds from around the globe. He smiled down at the photos, running his fingers across the painted wings. He looked up at Lisbeth and handed her the book.

"Read this," he said. "This was the last book he checked out before…" his hand caressed the wheel to his left. Lisbeth opened up the book, pulling out the notecard stuck to the inside cover. "Tate Langdon," she whispered, examining the faded black ink with the killer's own scrawl on it. Carmichael sighed and started pushing himself back towards the front of the library.

"I don't know why you're researching this event," he said, Lisbeth following in his tracks. "I would think after eighteen years it would have just become a tragic scar over this town, over this nation. There's nothing new to discover." "I'm researching Langdon," Lisbeth admitted, tucking the book of birds into her backpack. "There's a chance he did more than this." Carmichael stopped, turning to face Lisbeth.

"What?" he questioned. Lisbeth bit her bottom lip. "There's a chance he could have done more than just shoot up this school," she said. "It's my job to prove it, if it's true that is." Carmichael's eyebrows furrowed into a straight line, his mouth turning down into a frown.

"Yes," he whispered, looking down at the carpet through his thick lenses. He looked up at Lisbeth and gestured for her to lean down closer to him. Hesitantly, she did so, bending her body down so that her face was next to his mouth.

"He didn't believe in God," he whispered. "If you want to know anything about him, you need to understand what it's like to look through the eyes of a person who cannot imagine someone greater than their own self." Lisbeth pulled herself away from Carmichael, who nodded his head at her before turning and wheeling himself away from her.

"Good luck," he said, raising his hand up in farewell, the back of his wheelchair staring at Lisbeth's frozen form. The book weighing heavy in her bag, Lisbeth made her way out of the library and out of the high school, walking the same path Tate Langdon did eighteen years ago, a rifle slung across his back, his hands stained with blood.